


the record spins on the trails we blaze

by bloodgutsandstarbucks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Anxiety, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:49:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodgutsandstarbucks/pseuds/bloodgutsandstarbucks
Summary: Years after the events of Homecoming, Peter thought all of the bad memories were well and truly behind him. After all, so much has happened since then - and he's happy now. Everything is kinda perfect.Turns out nothing stays buried.





	the record spins on the trails we blaze

When Tony kisses Peter for the first time, his whole world rearranges.

Nothing more but a quick brush of lips against the side of Peter’s mouth, but everything tips sideways. Tingles alight all down his body, a zap, white-hot, shoots down his spine and into his toes, curling them inside the peak of his sneakers, fingers twitching at his sides. 

They’d been leading up to this for a while now.

In hindsight, even if it still took Peter by surprise, this quiet moment of intimacy had long been coming. Ever since he’d moved back to the city after his second year of college - and a year after Tony’s divorce to Pepper - the two had grown steadily closer, all the old bearings of mentor and trappings of professionalism had dissipated when the burgeonings of actual adulthood had allowed them to relate on a whole new level. 

Now they commiserated over old relationships, sipped liquor and laughed over the worst excuses they had to dates they bailed on - Peter was no longer an ‘intern’ at SI, and every minute spent tinkering in Tony’s lab, soldering and manipulating holograms to the soundtrack of classic rock wails and screeching riffs was all on his own time. 

At first, that summer was his. Then, it was theirs. 

Peter wanted to be there and Tony always welcomed him.

It was innocent at first. A brush of hands as they meandered around the lab, weaving around each other in common spaces in the compound, passing over salt and pepper over team dinners, a pat on the back during training, a hip check in the lab. 

It progressed, slowly then suddenly, finding growth in the dark and quiet; then it was a casual brush of socked feet as they shared a sofa, elbows poking ribs as they got comfortable in the limited space and, finally, the warm press of their sides. With Tony’s cologne filling his nose it was hard to remember what movies he’d seen.

Peter had spent many early mornings waking on that sofa, on his cushion reserved just for him with a special command from FRIDAY, coming back to the world with his nose buried in the crook of Tony’s neck, technicolour glow of the still playing TV in the background. 

Over the weeks incidental touches became lingering ones and pats on the back became welcome-home-hugs that endured for seconds longer than they should for friends, team-mates, allies - whatever they were. Then whatever they were started to become something more as easy talking turned to easy texting, trade messages back and forth when they weren’t in the same room, and sometimes even when they were.

Sometimes Peter would have his feet in Tony’s lap as the evening news broadcasts, fingers flying over his phone.

_Wanna order in? I would kill for Five Guys_, he’d text Tony.

_My head says yes, but my arteries say no_, Tony would text back, massaging Peter’s ankle.

They’d share a smile as Tony ordered a delivery that could feed an army with a side serving of sparkling water and chicken salad. For the arteries.

Sometimes they would order in and eat separately, but more often than not they ate together, coordinated their meals for when the other would be around, Peter always having a pot of coffee ready for whenever Tony dragged himself out of the bedroom or lab or back to state after a business trip.

It was the middle option mostly. A billionaire with poor self-care, Tony’s prime choice was his lab, working himself into delirium at times of stress or boredom - it was then that Peter started to get comfortable with extracting Tony from his lab himself. 

They’d endeared it _the forty-nine hour mark_. It was like, funny but not actually funny, amusing because they made it so under the stranglehold of depressing reality. Forty-nine hours, one hour over excess over the excessive, no longer productive but destructive and Tony knew when Peter appeared, cracking his knuckles, summoning DUM-E and U to his sides that it was all over. Red fucking rover. 

Sometimes they would share glances over lab desks that were more prolonged than strictly necessary for discussing quantum theory and very quickly they were spending less and less time discussing anything at all but the Mets were performing this season and how Tony should _really_ take Peter to a game and give him the whole experience, had even financially invested in the team this year. Peter vehemently combated the offerings, said he’d just be happy to share microwave nachos with Tony in front of the TV, as long as he didn’t talk too much shit about Syndergaard.

It turns out to be the right thing to say because Tony’s eyes do this weird thing where they shift in time with the twitch of his lips and then one day, mid-summer, over a dissected alien drone of the kitchen table, everything does that topsy-turvy sideways thing. 

After some initial excited discussion Tony asks Peter to come over, to ask him what he thinks about the interstellar steel, the strange composition and his predictions for the heat and pressure tests to come, just where it may have travelled from.

Peter had leaned over Tony’s back, reached over to point out the foreign particles he sight could spot and their theoretical properties, noticing a beat too late that Tony had gone quiet. When he’d looked to see, it was fondness that silenced the man and filled his eyes with something dewy and soft. Peter was already looking at him the same way.

With a vivisected alien weapon as their witness, it was then that Tony had leaned in that final inch and kissed Peter. 

Stunned, he’d pressed Tony against the table, kissing him fiercely. 

“I can’t do this casually, Tony,” Peter had said, stepping back. “Not with you.”

Tony replied in a murmur, wrapping his arms around Peter, “Good, me neither.”

That was a month ago.

And it had been, well, perfect, ever since. For the seismic shift in their status, nothing much had changed.

Time was spent together in mostly the same way as before. In shared meals and bickering over music choices in the lab, nights on the rooftop and clinking beers as the New York skyline lit up like pulsating veins. Except now all the fleeting touches held no guilt and had intent and meaning - Peter stealing a samosa from Tony’s plate was followed up with a placating kiss to his pouting lips, Tony’s feet in his lap were welcomed when they grazed his groin, a kiss was a kiss and it was never a mistake.

They’d agreed to start slow. 

For a few blissful weeks that’s all it was. Kissing, heavy-petting, Peter straddling Tony’s thighs as he trailed his mouth along Tony’s jaw and down his neck, Tony’s hands slipping under his shirt, stroking his stomach reverently and sneaking up to pinch and pet Peter’s sensitive nipples. They grinded against each other on the couch in the dark, Netflix streaming on mute and ignored in the background, Peter atop Tony as they chased not just their own release, but the exploration of the other persons body and what made them gasp. 

It was a revelation, knowing what Tony smelled like under his arms and the taste of his neck, the texture of his smile lines against Peter’s lips, all of the minute details his imagination could never have compensated for, before.

They graduated to handjobs to blowjobs, sharing showers after training, after missions, in the mornings just because. Peter grew more confident in gripping Tony’s hips and pressing him against the tiles and became _very well acquainted_ with the heft and curve of the older mans cock, how the cleft of Tony’s firm ass felt as his cock slipped inbetween. 

When they moved their activities to the bed, still keeping their oath of slow and steady, Tony had set out some ground rules. 

Tony had made his own passing remark about blindfolds and handcuffs which he’s immediately followed up by mentioning he didn’t like having his wrists restrained (anymore) or sensory deprivation of any kind (anymore) - and Peter had kissed his knuckles and said that was perfectly fine and when Tony asked about his hard limits Peter had laughed and lied and said he didn’t know but anything involving certain body fluids was off the list.

He knew, though. But he thought…. it was _Tony_. If Peter could overcome anything it would be because he’d do anything to make Tony happy, this perfect patchwork man who had been through so much. 

All he’d ever wanted was to be a part of Tony so Peter never told him why he always found a way to pin Tony to the mattress or the couch or squirmed if it were reversed - and Tony never asked.

It worked out for the best, incredibly. It turns out the indomitable, incorrigible Tony Stark had a great _liking_ towards being subdued, _desired_ having his partners take control in the bedroom.

He knows this because he apologised for being heavy once after he’d slumped over Tony’s spent form, come cooling in his shorts. With his eyes glazed Tony had brushed him off and said he really, _really_ liked it and to never apologise to him for it again. So he didn’t.

Peter lived to see the way Tony’s eyes would darken when they wrestled in the sheets, when Peter’s knees would straddle either side of his hips and press him into the mattress.

So they gravitate around each other, avoiding their respective issues in that old-friendship, but new-relationship kind of way. They sort of knew where the landmines were but respected the new ground too much to step on it.

The same aliens that left their drone in American airspace then attacks the compound in the beginning of August looking for their tech. 

No one is seriously hurt but in their frantic search the invaders take out an entire wing of the compound. In their wake they leave a crumpled, smouldering mess of what used to be Peter’s bedroom amongst an entire third of the compound.

They get used to the construction workers after that.

Peter, well, he’s okay? He’s doing alright with the lingering smell of dust and the powder of drywall that sticks to everything - and if his heart beats faster every time he thinks of the sound of concrete crashing then he’s the only one that can hear it.

It turns out to be the best and worst thing that could have possibly happened, really. It means that he’s without an abode for the remainder of the summer and well, Tony just happened to have room in his California King _just_ for Peter - and all honourable prior notions of slow and steady slide away.

It starts out innocently. Well, as much as two lovers sharing a bed together can be innocent - a brush of backsides as they shuffle against the mattress to get comfortable before sleep, Tony waking up with Peter’s arm over his waist and morning wood pressed against his ass, kissing under the sheets, sheets getting dirty, finding a way to be wrapped each other always.

Sometimes Peter can still smell the plaster while he drifts between rooms and dreams and wakes up with a whimper but, thankfully, it rarely rouses Tony. For better or worse, the older man is more often awake and out of bed already - or lost in the labyrinth of his own dreams.

Peter knows.

There is a rotation of Avengers that help with the repairs, lifting heavy beams of steel, flying up panes of glass faster and more steadily than an industrial crane and when it’s his turn all he can smell is wet cement. But he does it to help even if he can’t eat for the days remainder because all he can taste in the back of his throat is the filthy puddle he’d passed out in when the building collapsed on him.

In the shriek of handsaws and clang of hammers all he hears is the craggy rasp of Toomes voice, but he perseveres, lifting tons of bricks and stacks of timber, swinging materials from one floor to another, his suit an extra layer of protection - so what if his eyes are a little wild when a section of damaged wall comes careening to the floor with a crash, so what if Tony is too nearby for him to protect in case anything went awry - concrete doesn’t just crash, it crumbles and splinters and with the dust rising up Peters finds his breath caught in his maelstrom in his chest and quickly remembers he has somewhere else to be.

He patrols a lot.

Peter knows. He knows he should have gone back to Queens and stayed with May the moment he heard the wing concave in on itself, should have slung Ben’s old suitcase over his shoulder and caught the quickest route back to New York, should have spent his weeks pretending to love May’s meatloaf and braiding her hair behind her neck as she prepares for another shift at the hospital.

But he doesn’t. Because this way Peter gets to have cold pizza in bed in the mornings, Tony hand-feeding him a slice of veggie-supreme as Peter scrolls through his feed distractedly in the grey sunlight, torsos bare and warm and flushed together. He gets to have the weight of a sleepy Tony on his back when he piggybacks him out of the lab after hour forty-nine, Morgan on the weekends and hide-and-seek. They play video games together, trash talking and when Peter wins or doesn’t win it’s fine, and in everyday conversation Tony calls him _honey, baby, sweetheart_ \- 

He gets morning breath and hips bumping in the bathroom as they brush their teeth, a drowsy trade of toothpaste, shaving spot-checking and slow kisses before the world calls upon them both – all of Peter’s domestic dream since he was old enough to have them. Tony is the centre of his world.

So he endures everything else.

It’s not the worst cross he’s had to shoulder, waking up with Tony pressing his upper body into the mattress and reliving the sense memory of his spine snapping under the weight of the building Toomes dropped on him.

The worst was waiting for his spinal cord to stitch back together, every synapse and neuron weaving like active electric wire underneath his skin in slow, excruciating staccato before he can try and heave it up himself, punctured lungs protesting – _no one is coming for him_ -

It’s worth it.

For those weeks Tony doesn’t ask any more of him, pleased to take pleasure as it comes, ordering FRIDAY to creak open a window when Peter says he needs fresh air sometimes a little more breathlessly than what’s normal. And when things get overwhelming to his senses he buries face in Tony’s neck and breathes and its good, it works. It’s perfect.

“What’s wrong,” Tony says, carding his hand through Peter’s curls where his head lays upon the jagged centre of scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me fix it.”

Peter lies, says it’s the pending college year but he’s already three weeks ahead in course work, was versed the content since he was fourteen. Tony takes him at his word, initially, or he does until Peter can no longer stand the weight of the duvet on top of him night after night; then he doesn’t.

“You can’t fix it, Tony” Peter laughs, because it’s so _stupid_, tears never making it past his eyelashes. “I’m okay, promise. I’m just being dumb.”

It’s infuriating, because Peter has managed to bury this one under the rubble long enough that he’d _almost_ been able to fool himself into forgetting about it - because that was the beauty of quick, successive moments of trauma, it all melts into indiscernible moments until you can suddenly only remember the one thing - then you realise you’d never forgotten it all, it was always there in a pixelated version, waiting for things to clear.

It doesn’t stay buried.

It had been a wonderful night. Candlelit dinner, no one to bother them or make faces at their overt affection, lasagna followed by bad reality TV on the couch followed by a stumble into the bedroom, unable to keep their hands off each other, bumping into walls and furniture as they kissed, laughing into each others lips as they misjudge the distance.

Tony kicks the bedroom door closed at the same time his mouth finds Peter’s neck and, tripping over themselves, they fall back onto the bed. Sheets rumple and shirts get lost along the way, then their jeans.

It’s their first time like this, since they’d gotten together. Slow and steady, Tony opens Peter up with such reverence that Peter ignores the way his spine tightens at the weight of his lover on top of him, pinning him down. When Tony enters him finally, thrusting shallowly at first and leaning over to kiss Peter sweetly, it’s easy to forget, lost in the pleasant tickle of Tony’s beard against his chin, his neck, the slide of his tongue and the feeling of fullness, having Tony inside him and all around him.

It couldn’t be more perfect. After, there is a generous trade of slow kisses, running their hands over each others bodies as the endorphins begin to subside. With their limbs wrapped around another Peter falls asleep with his nose buried in Tony’s neck, comforted in the soreness of his body and the smell of skin and sweat.

It’s so perfect, in fact, that he’s not sure it’s not all a dream, another syrupy illusion. Because Peter doesn’t get good things like a perfect night with Tony Stark and the next thing he knows is the terrible, immovable pressure on his back and the constriction of his lungs, pinning him down to something, his face smothered.

He dreams in snippets and flashes, of the impossible weight of concrete and steel over his body, hot flashes of helplessness as his spine and ribs break, crushing his lungs and he _can’t breathe_ and he can’t see and he knows he’s been here a hundred times before so it must be a dream - except -

Except when he opens his eyes it’s still dark and the taste of dirt is still in his mouth and he’s being crushed, _he can’t move - no one is coming for him_ -

It’s not concrete that’s pressing him down but he kicks his legs and elbows out anyway, ears ringing with his own whimpering and the rush of blood as his lungs try to desperately bring enough air - but _he can’t breathe, he’s stuck_ -

He falls gracelessly in his haste to get away, disoriented when he feels carpet underneath him instead of the cold, unforgiving press of the warehouse floor.

When he looks around it’s still dark, but not pitch black like it was just moments ago, he can see city lights through through tall windows and he remembers now he’s _here_ in Tony’s bedroom, in the upstate compound, but when he closes his eyes all he can feel is the weight -

Trembling, he crawls to the windows and presses his naked back against the cool glass, blinking tears out of his eyes, trying to remind himself that he’s here, _he’s here, he’s here_.

“Baby?”

Tony’s voice takes him by surprise, as does the illumination of the bedside lamp. It’s just bright enough to startle his senses to snap them back into reality. When he looks up to the bed Tony has a hand pressed to his sternum and a grimace on his face. Confused, Peter blinks into vague recollection a memory of his elbow making contact with something solid, and -

_Fuck_.

“Oh my god, are you – I’m _so_ sorry,” he croaks, already starting to cry.

Realising he hurt Tony only brings a new wave of shame over Peter, drawing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face in his hands. The sound of his own wet sniffles only makes his humiliation bloom. What the hell is _wrong_ with him?

“What’s wrong, hey, it’s okay,” Tony soothes, the sheets rustle followed by the dampened sound of footsteps on carpet.

A familiar warmth and Tony is settling by his side, but Peter tenses up immediately, too skittish to be touched, feeling like an asshole when Tony calmly says, _okay, it’s okay, you’re okay_.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter repeats wetly into his hands, tasting salt on his lips. “I ruined it, Tony, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey now, you didn’t ruin anything - “

“ - I _did_, I hurt you, I ruined it - “

“Sweetheart, look at me,” Tony says sternly, placing a warm hand on Peter’s ankle. “C’mon, I need you to look at me.”

Peter hesitates for a moment, childishly wanting to hide his tears and shame behind his hands, like if maybe Tony can’t see his face, he won’t see how badly he’s falling apart over something so stupid.

The quiet plead in Tony’s voice is what makes Peter lower his shaking hands, scrubbing away the tear tracks as he does. The sting in his eyes and the quiver in his voice makes him feel far more exposed than his near nakedness.

“Look,” Tony says, gesturing to his body. “See? I’m alright, no harm done. You’re a very effective alarm clock, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

“I still ruined it,” Peter insists, humiliation coursing through his chest, “tonight was perfect and I -”

“It’s still perfect, we’re fine,” Tony says gently, squeezing his ankle and grounding him. “You think I haven’t had nights like this? That I won’t _still_ have nights like this? There’s nothing to be ashamed of, I’m not judging. It’s okay, Pete.”

He shakes his head, trying to recentre himself when it seems the walls aren’t closing in.

“It is, c’mon,” Tony assures, dipping his chin to look into Peter’s eyes when he lowers his gaze. “You want to talk about it? Might make you feel better, which is rich coming from me, I know, but still. Talk. I mean, if you want to. You’re beginning to worry me.”

“It’s so stupid,” Peter shakes his head again, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he lets Tony’s voice wash over him. “It’s not worth it. I’m just, I’m okay. I’m fine.”

He wants to hide his face in his knees and say _you weren’t supposed to see me like this_.

Sweat pooling under his arms, positively dripping down his lower back, he still has aftershocks wracking through his chest, whole body quaking violently. He’s overheated, but he feels his face drain of blood as the dregs of panic drip away, the subsiding adrenaline making his head go light.

Tony looks at him a little sadly, Peter thinks, understanding and worry etched into his brow and Peter _hates_ it.

Tony leans over to grab a discarded shirt off the ground and uses it to gently wipe the sweat beading down Peter’s temple and dotted over his forehead. He uses his other hand to thumb away the salty tear tracks on his cheeks, to catch the drops that have collected at his chin.

“I’m okay,” Peter smiles weakly, folding his arms over his chest as he continues to shiver, body going cool after a few minutes. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t ever be sorry,” Tony whispers, squeezing his calf. “Let me draw you a bath, sweetheart. Okay?”

Peter nods after a moment and lets himself be helped to his feet.

Inside the adjoining ensuite Peter sits on the tiles as Tony runs the water, dipping his hand into the tub periodically to check the temperature. It’s comforting, the bright glow of the bathroom lights and the sound of water running, Tony muttering mostly to himself about plumbing and upgrades, everything becoming like soft, white noise.

When the tub is adequately full Tony shuts the water off and helps Peter to his feet again, clinically removing the sweat soaked boxers that cling to his skin. Stepping shakily inside the tub he grips onto Tony’s hand for support, not letting go even once he lays back, hot water encasing his whole body.

It feels like he’s weightless.

“Can you stay?” he whispers, looking up at the ceiling as shame makes his cheeks bloom pink.

“Of course,” Tony assures, kissing the back of Peter’s hand where they are still joined. “Do you want some music?”

Peter shakes his head, sitting up a little, self-conscious. He doesn’t speak when Tony gently rubs a scentless bar of soap over his skin, softly gliding it over his body, under his arms. Peter just watches with a sense of blankness as the water turns milky with suds, notices how his toes seem bigger, magnified under the water. It feels like he’s here, but somehow empty and detached, like he left his heart pounding on the bedroom floor.

It’s easier to speak, thinking he’s not really here.

“Do you remember Toomes?” Peter asks quietly, stroking his fingers through the water.

“The Crow? No wait, what was it - the Vulture?” Tony asks after a beat, pouring water down Peters back. “Guy with the wings?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “That guy.”

He tells Tony the whole story like he’s an outsider, like it’s some mundane anecdote from his day, voice growing quieter but steadier as he recalls the night. Tony’s movements have slowed, rubbing over the same spot over and over.

“And where was _I_ during all of this?”

“It was after Coney Island, after, y’know -” Peter whispers into his knees.

“Wow, I really managed –”

Peters lip trembles when he firmly cuts Tony off. “Don’t, Tony. Don’t blame yourself, please. I was going to be in that exact situation with or without you - it was _always_ going to turn out that way.”

“Pete…”

“It was a long time ago,” he says to the water. “It’s done, it’s over. I told you it was stupid.”

“Baby, it’s not stupid. You’re allowed to carry a few scars up here,” Tony sighs, leaning forward to press his lips against Peter’s temple. “You don’t get to choose what scars you have.”

“I felt my body disintegrate,” he says plainly. “I died. I’ve been hit by a train. Some days I wake up and I genuinely don’t know if what I’m seeing is real or if I’m _still_ stuck in a really elaborate illusion. What’s having a building drop on me against all that?”

He pulls the plug and watches the water swirl down the drain.

Tony hums thoughtfully, leaning over in Peters peripheral vision to grab a folded towel from the cabinet.

“You were fifteen and you were in pain and you were alone. You can’t rank trauma on a sliding scale, kid - trust me, I’ve tried. Oh, have I tried.”

Peter manages a small smile at that, already picturing Tony trying to catalogue his trauma in fine, annotated detail.

“You know what trips me up the most sometimes?” Tony continues. “Standing in front of the freezer.”

Tony grins wryly, wrapping Peter up in a big fluffy towel and helping him out of the tub. “One minute I’m reaching for the vodka the next I’m back in Siberia, bleeding out with no way home. Seems small in the grand scheme of things, right?”

The cool air against his legs makes him shiver a little, and he’s loose and sleepy enough to fall into Tony’s embrace, the buttery soft towel and the heat of Tony’s arms around him a cushion against the rest of the world. Again, his nose finds the junction between Tony’s shoulder and throat, breathing in his scent as they sway slightly.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry I freaked you out tonight,” Peter whispers, untangling his arms for what feels like the first time that night, snaking them around Tony’s waist, fingers gripping onto the skin at his hips where he has started to get soft.

“I’m sorry that happened to _you_,” Tony whispers into Peter’s hairline, rubbing a hand up and down his back in soothing motions. “I’m sorry you carried it alone for so long.”

“S’okay. I’m okay.”

“I know. Hazards of the job, huh?”

He hums agreeably.

“Do you think you could get back to sleep again or are you too wired?”

“Too wired,” he mumbles into Tony’s neck.

“Okay. Wanna eat leftovers on the couch and watch Gordon Ramsay yell at people?”

He nods.

As sunlight slithers up the skyline Peter dozes off on the couch in Tony’s embrace, wrung out and battered, but if not the smallest increment lighter than he was the night before.

**Author's Note:**

> [I tumble](https://darker-soft-starker.tumblr.com/)


End file.
